


Blue Ribbon

by Samayla



Series: Lemon Meringue AU [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Baking, Fluff, Found Family, M/M, dwarvish pranks...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:27:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22070287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samayla/pseuds/Samayla
Summary: In which Thorin hatches a plot to share his legendary pies at the Midsummer fair.-Update April 2020-I've added a new first chapter, and edited the original to flow better as a second chapter. If you are returning to this work, make sure you start back at Chapter 1. Enjoy!
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: Lemon Meringue AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1277327
Comments: 4
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

Bilbo Baggins was quite content to pass his morning in the sun-soaked, bustling market, in search of the perfect summer squash. 

Thorin had expressed a craving for it, and Bilbo amused himself by envisioning the beautiful dishes he could make for his husband. Perhaps a saute with colorful peppers and ripe cherry tomatoes. Or layer it and bake with bread crumbs and some good hard cheese from over in Buckland. Old Rori Brandybuck was sure to enter some at the fair in a few days, and with a little luck, he’d come early and could be coaxed to stay up at Bag End for the festivities. Frodo would be delighted to see Merry, and like as not, wild little Peregrine would tag along for the adventure as well. They could have quite the merry little party for Midsummer’s Eve this year.

A likely looking candidate at a nearby table brought his musings to a temporary halt, and he ducked and wove his way through the crowd with single-minded purpose that would have made Thorin laugh out loud. 

Tim Boffin had overpriced his squashes, as usual, but Bilbo was in a fine mood for haggling. Within minutes, he had knocked Tim down to two-thirds price on two of his prettiest specimens, and gotten a lovely sweet pepper out of the deal, too. Feeling quite proud of his prizes - and quite content with the fact that he now would not need to choose between a saute and a layered bake - Bilbo headed for home, eager for Thorin’s opinion on which they should make first.

“Bilbo! Bilbo!”

Halfway across the market bridge, Bilbo whirled and saw someone was waving a paper above the heads of the other hobbits in the market. Maisy Brownlock materialized out of the crowd, skirt rumpled, hat askew, and breathlessly shoved the paper at Bilbo. He juggled his shopping out of the way, nearly dumping his beautiful squash into the dirt.

“Maisy, what --”

“It’s for Thorin,” she panted, trying to catch her breath without looking like she was catching her breath. Bilbo imagined it wasn’t ladylike to pant. Though why she should concern herself with that when he could see Everard Bolger behind her, perched on a crate and waving his walking stick in their direction - he caught the distinct shape of the words “disturbers of the peace” - was beyond him.

“What is it?” He settled his basket more securely into the crook of his arm and smoothed out the crumpled paper.

“An entry form, of course,” Maisy chirped. “Thorin’s expressed interest in the pie contest, and since I was down delivering muffins at the fair office this morning, Bill Sandyman asked me to bring this right over on my way back.”

Bilbo had had no idea Thorin was even remotely interested. He hadn’t said anything about entering any of his metalwork, and Bilbo had rather assumed that was the end of it. “Thank you, Maisy,” he began, “but -”

Maisy held up a hand to forestall his protest and raised her chin. “I won’t have it said I tried to win by default. Thorin will have a fair shot like everyone else - even if my lemon meringue has taken top prize the last four years running.”

“Well, er, thank you, Maisy,” Bilbo offered. “That’s very big of you.”

“It’s nothing,” she replied, flipping her curls back over her shoulder and nudging her hat back into its customarily jaunty angle. “It’s just good to see him settling down into a more hobbit-like way of doing things. There were some, you know, who thought a dwarf could never fit in here, but I say, there really is no better way to cement a place here than to enter something in the MIdsummer Fair, however it turns out.”

“Er, as you say, I’m sure.” 

“Wish Thorin luck for me, Bilbo,” Maisy chirped, smoothing her skirt. “I’ll see you two on fair day!” 

As Maisy disappeared back into the crowded market, Bilbo was struck by a sudden, awful thought. He peered down at the brilliantly yellow vegetables in his basket, suddenly suspicious.


	2. Chapter 2

“You cannot be serious.”

Thorin barely glanced up from the ranks and regiments of ingredients he was arranging on the kitchen table. “Why not?”

Bilbo took a deep breath to calm himself. Getting angry would help nothing, he reminded himself, as Thorin meant no harm. “Thorin, Love, your pies are amazing,” he said gently. “They are, truly — just not for the same reasons that pies win blue ribbons at the fair.”

Thorin turned and drew Bilbo into his arms. “Perhaps I do not need to win a blue ribbon, Ghivashel,” he rumbled, kissing the end of Bilbo’s nose. His whiskers tickled.

“I thought you liked the adventure of it all, Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo commented. He deposited a teetering stack of pans on the already cluttered sideboard. He turned to Thorin with a grin. “That’s every oven-proof thing the Gaffer’s got.”

“Good, good,” Thorin said, returning to filling bowls with sugar. “Any word from the Hardbottles about those peppers?”

“Nat says he’ll have them picked and ready for us by elevenses. I’ll collect them when I go for the last of the flour at the mill. He doesn’t suspect a thing - I told Nat Uncle Bilbo was stuffing them for dinner tonight.”

"Ha! Perfect!"

“I do love the adventure of it,” Bilbo interrupted, desperate to retake control of the situation. He surveyed the boxes of beets and melons and yellow carrots lying among the bowls of lemon zest and egg whites. Thorin finished with the sugar and moved onto measuring out a bowl of cornmeal, of all things. Bilbo shuddered. “Thorin, Love, you just can’t inflict such adventures upon our unsuspecting neighbors.”

“I think it’ll be good for them,” Thorin protested, perfectly unconcerned. “When folk get too settled, they forget to appreciate what they have.”

Bilbo snorted. “You sound like Gandalf.”

“There are worse things,” Frodo said, cheerfully greasing pan after pan. “Like Aunt Lobelia. I’ve got a special ‘adventure earmarked for her.” 

“Thorin,” Bilbo said quite firmly, “I purchased the summer squash down at the market this morning. Whatever happens, they’ll think I was part of it. I won’t be able to smooth things over, Love. They think you’re doing this to fit in. You just can’t throw it all back in their faces like this.”

Thorin finally stopped his measuring and turned to face Bilbo. “It’ll be fine, Ghivashel,” he insisted. “You can’t polish a gem without a little friction.” He herded Bilbo toward the hall, leaving dusty, yellow-white handprints on his waistcoat.

“And if it’s not,” Frodo put in brightly, happily sorting and stacking pots and pans by size, “well, what’s the worst that can happen? Everyone is already convinced we’re as odd as they come, Uncle Bilbo. I should think they’d all be rather pleased with themselves if we proved them correct.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to argue, but Thorin silenced him with a quick kiss that tasted of sugar and lemon. “You worry too much, Ghivashel.”


	3. Chapter 3

Midsummer’s Day dawned bright and hot, and Bilbo could hear shouts and laughter drifting in with the sunshine through his bedroom window. It sounded like all of Hobbiton was already down in the Party Field below the Hill. 

Bilbo reached a hand over, only to discover that Thorin was already gone. 

Likely out “fitting in” with the others. 

Bilbo turned his back on the window and considered never getting out of bed again. He could avoid Maisy Brownlock’s smug condescension, Old Bolger’s disapproval, and whatever fallout Frodo’s plot would cause with the Sackville-Bagginses. Surely, if he wasn’t even at the fair today, no one could blame him for any of it.

Bilbo sighed. It would be a shame, though, to miss Thorin’s display. Bilbo had worked hard to make sure his husband knew he wasn’t mad at him, that he supported him, whatever came of this mess. He’d been up half the night down at the field, while Frodo and Thorin had finished their baking and decorating here in the smial and been none the wiser. 

He dearly wished that felt like enough.

Bilbo sighed again and threw his pillow at the sunny window with a growl. Even if it was all Thorin’s fault, the stubborn idiot meant no harm by it. For Thorin, Bilbo would go, and at the very least, his pies would look spectacular.

Bilbo levered himself upright, which turned out to be the most difficult part of the ordeal. Once he was out of bed, it was a simple matter to put on his best deep blue waistcoat with little acorn-shaped buttons - a gift from Thorin on their last anniversary. He decided to skip the jacket that went with it, warm as the day was, and after a quick breakfast of muffins that Thorin had somehow found the time to bake last night, he was ready to face whatever the day threw at him.

The first hurdle was Maisy Brownlock, waving him over excitedly as he passed her stall. Her pies smelled heavenly, but the fluffy meringue was rather pale and plain, he decided. And the riot of pink and yellow and orange flowers decorating her stall seemed over the top.

“Oh, Bilbo! I can hardly believe Thorin’s display! I’ve never seen such beautiful pies,” she gushed, taking both his hands in hers. “If my grandmother had only lived to see what he made of her simple recipe! Delightful! And so many shapes and sizes - terribly clever, of course!”

“Wishes she’d thought of it first, more like,” said a voice just over Bilbo’s shoulder. “You have a customer, dear,” she said to Maisy, who bustled away at once, though Bilbo could see she had more than enough help managing her stall.

“Thank you for that, Aunt Belba,” Bilbo said sincerely. He’d been sure Maisy meant to wring his hands clean off. 

“Any time, dear,” she replied, taking his arm and leading him on down the main concourse of the fair. “Now, late as you are, I’d imagine you are largely responsible for the profusion of forget-me-nots and silver ribbon decorating a certain pie stall this morning?”

Bilbo grinned helplessly.

“I thought so. Caused quite the stir this morning, from what I understand, when that dwarf of yours showed up to find his stall already decorated. Lobelia called foul play.”

Bilbo stopped. “Over flowers?”

Aunt Belba allowed the corner of her mouth to twitch upwards in the tiniest of smirks and led him on. “Gave her a sneezing fit, which of course made it impossible for her to snoop around.. It’s put her in a terrible temper.”

“Of course it has,” Bilbo muttered, and he was treated to another of Aunt Belba’s little smirks before she drew to a halt at the edge of a particularly dense knot of fairgoers. Bilbo realized it was Thorin’s stand that was causing the bottleneck. His pies were selling like hotcakes.

“This is as far as I dare go, dear boy. Good luck.” 

Bilbo had the mad urge to run and hide again, but Frodo spotted him over the crowd. “Uncle Bilbo!” he called, holding two pies high above the jostline hobbits. “Come give us a hand!” Bilbo pushed his way through the throng and was immediately put to work keeping tables stocked as pie after pie disappeared.


	4. Chapter 4

“That’s the last of them, Love,” Bilbo declared, sliding the last two pies onto the front table. Thorin turned and planted a happy kiss in the middle of his forehead, and Bilbo reflected that, even if the whole of the Shire had to suffer through his husband’s baking adventure, it was worth it just for that kiss. Just to see Thorin so perfectly, breathlessly happy. 

He watched fondly as Thorin sold the smaller of the pies to Maisy Brownlock, who gushed convincingly over the sprigs of chamomile and curls of candied lemon peel that graced the top of the little puff of meringue. The confection had been baked in a muffin tin and then slid out onto a round of simple butcher paper, but Maisy cradled it like it was a precious gem.

“Oh, I do wish my grandmother could have met you,” she said. “She would have loved this.”

“I’m just glad if I can do her recipe justice,” Thorin replied, still incandescently happy, and Bilbo wondered at his acting ability. Surely he must know how upset she’d be when she bit into lemony squash puree or some other such combination. “Merry Midsummer.”

“Merry Midsummer!” Maisy chirped back, then bustled back to her near-empty stall with her prize.

“She’ll be copying your style before the week is out, my dear,” said Aunt Belba, shaking her head.

Thorin shrugged. “So much the better,” he said with a chuckle. “Then there’ll be that much more pie to go around.”

Aunt Belba shook her head in disbelief. “You are generous to a fault, my dear fellow, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I take advantage. Might you have a bit of pie left for your dear Aunt Belba, who was too timid to join the throng earlier, and sadly spent her pennies on cold drinks for the fauntlings playing in this heat?”

“I might,” Thorin mused, already sliding his last pie - swirling golden peaks spangled with tiny candied lilacs like an inverted night sky - across the table, “if my dear Aunt Belba would promise to save my dear, hardworking husband one of your onion poppy rolls at the party later.”

“Darling boy, I shall save a whole basket!”

“Then it is yours,” Thorin declared, offering the pie with a flourishing bow that made Aunt Belba - prim, proper Aunt Belba - giggle like a schoolgirl.

“Ladies and gentlefolk,” the Gaffer called from the stage beneath the Party Tree, and an expectant hush fell over the fairground, just as it had done for the judging of each category throughout the day. “I ask that all competitors in the pie competition bring up their wares so we might have a look and a taste and a bit of dessert before dinner.” There was a ripple of laughter through the crowd. “Judging in five minutes,” he called. “And mind you lateness will not be tolerated, as there is a great deal of very good food and drink being set up in the tents behind me, and it waits for no hobbit, so neither shall we.” Another ripple of laughter greeted this scolding, and the Gaffer bowed and left the stage.

“Oh, dear,” Aunt Belba said suddenly. “Thorin, do tell me you haven’t given me your very last pie! You must have something for the judges!”

“Don’t worry,” Thorin assured her, and Bilbo dared hope he’d let her keep the last pie and forego the judging by his own choice. As happy as Thorin was, Bilbo didn’t want a scene on the stage to ruin it all. He would very much prefer to eat and then head home before anyone could try any of the pies. “Ghivashel,” Thorin murmured, “would you go - “

“That was the last of them,” Bilbo said gently. “I'm sorry, Love - but you have made a great many people very happy today.”

Thorin smiled. “There is one more, in the bottom of the lunch basket Frodo brought down this afternoon. Would you fetch it for me, please, Ghivashel, while I escort Aunt Belba to her seat?”

“No way on the Green Lady’s good earth am I going to miss seeing the pie that will top Maisy Brownlock’s!”

Bilbo chuckled a little weakly and went to fetch the pie from the back. It was right where Thorin had said it’d be, nestled among some towels for transport. 

Bilbo lifted it out of the basket and just took a minute to marvel in private. It was a thing of absolute beauty. Thorin had opted to crown this pie with a ring of pale, sugared primroses and soft, pointed leaves. Thorin’s pie decorations for the fair had ranged from geometric dwarven designs studded with jewel-bright petals, to soft, hobbity swirls topped with sprigs of greenery. Somehow, this pie, his Midsummer Pie, managed to strike the perfect balance between the two. It was perfection.

Too bad those were mint leaves on top, though Thorin had done a masterful job of concealing the medicinal scent with an extra burst of lemon. Bilbo shuddered at the memory of the not-a-pie Frodo had helped him create all those years ago. Thorin's pies were always an adventure, but there were some that stood out in his mind more strongly than others. Lemon and peppermint was one of them.

“Last call for the pie contest,” called a sharp, shrill voice Bilbo would recognize anywhere, and any desperate, half-formed notions of accidents and smashed pies flew right out of his head. This sort of adventure just might do Lobelia Sackville-Baggins some good after all.

Bilbo carried the pie reverently out to the front table. “Thorin, Love, it’s beautiful,” he breathed as he passed it to Thorin.

“Midsummer perfection,” Aunt Belba agreed.

Thorin just grinned, helpless and happy, and strode to the stage with his entry sparkling under the late afternoon sun.


	5. Chapter 5

Thorin’s pie, last to enter the fair and last to the stage, was the last to be judged, and a tense hush had fallen over the usually chatty crowd as everyone waited to see whether Maisy Brownlock could possibly have met her match at last.

Bilbo just wanted to see the look on Lobelia’s face.

She’d maneuvered herself so that she was the first of the four judges to try each pie, and it was her over-the-top reaction that always set the trend.

Behind him, Thorin was tense. Bilbo snuggled further into his embrace, and the arms around him relaxed just a fraction.

The first slice of pie came out of the tin - a proper one for this most important of pies - like a dream. The crowd sighed in admiration as the judges complimented the smoothness of the curd, the ratio of curd to meringue, and the flakiness of the crust. So far, it seemed a match for Maisy’s pie, and so it would come down to taste.

As she’d planned, Lobelia was the first to take a bite, and the look on her face was as if someone had served her a mouthful of raw lemon. 

Bilbo let out a shrill little giggle, unable to help himself. Thorin gave him a squeeze and a kiss on top of his head, and he was ashamed he’d ever considered sabotaging his husband’s plot. It really wasn’t hurting anything at all, and they’d all have a good laugh over drinks later, and Bilbo began to hope that all might be forgiven in the name of a good joke.

But then the queerest thing happened.

The second judge, Posco Proudfoot, tasted the pie, and he smiled.

Salvia Cotton was next, her cheeks bright with excitement as she chewed, and finally stern old Rondo Bracegirdle, who went back for a second bite.

Aside from Lobelia, none of them appeared disgusted, horrified, traumatized, or otherwise the least bit put out by Thorin’s pie, and Bilbo could not understand it.

The judges conferred for a minute with each other, then the Gaffer, before he stepped forward once again. He waved his hands importantly, though the field was already dead silent in anticipation. “Ladies and gentlefolk,” he began, “the results are in, and I am very pleased to say that we will very shortly be adjourning for dinner, supper - and quite possibly breakfast tomorrow, if the drinks flow free.” He paused for the cheer that went up across the field.  “Now,” the Gaffer continued, “all of our entrants today made a very solid showing. Let’s have a hand for all our fantastic cooks, bakers, crafters, and gardeners!”

“Get on with it already!” shouted someone from the back.

“Don’t get your toe hair in knots, Master Proudfoot,” the Gaffer called back. “I'll get there. Third prize goes to Mrs. Flora Brandybuck’s blueberry pie with cinnamon crust.” He waited for the polite applause and the hooting from the Buckland hobbits to die down. Flora, beaming, scurried forward to collect her white ribbon. She pinned it into her auburn curls and did a quick twirl, much to the audience’s amusement.

“Second prize - and my, this is unexpected, to say the least - to Miss Maisy Hardbottle for her legendary lemon meringue.” There was a great deal of murmuring at this, but Maisy accepted her red ribbon with admirable good grace and a grin in Thorin’s direction. His hold tightened around Bilbo, who began patting his husband’s hand consolingly.

“And first prize goes to first-time competitor Thorin Oakenshield-Baggins!”

“What?” Bilbo blurted as the crowd went wild.

Thorin was immediately engulfed in a crowd of well-wishers, but Bilbo was too confused to be proud. He ducked out of the throng and marched up to the stage, where Lobelia was once again looking as if she’d swallowed a lemon. He picked up a spare fork and carefully lifted off one of the leaves from Thorin’s pie. He gave it an experimental sniff, then a lick.

It wasn’t mint at all. 

It was lemon balm.

He steeled himself and tried a bite of the pie.

It was perfectly sweet, perfectly tart, perfectly smooth... It was s unshine on a plate.

Thorin’s booming laugh rang out, and Bilbo turned, stunned, to see most of the crowd was now watching him in no small degree of confusion. “I thought - “

Frodo was laughing too. “You should have seen your face, Uncle!”

“But the squash, the peppers… cornmeal… I saw your setup.”

“All safely hidden in Master Gamgee’s pantry,” Thorin rumbled, stepping up onto the stage to accept his blue ribbon from the Gaffer. "I've had a great deal of practice at getting pies wrong, Ghivashel, but that is still a great deal of practice at making pies." He turned to the crowd, throwing an arm around Bilbo's shoulders. “You all may remember a certain tent full of flowers that a great many of you helped me engineer, but I believe my husband owes you the story of the pie that went with it. Come on - drinks are on Bilbo!”

"They're free," Bilbo squeaked.

Thorin kissed his forehead. "Then I'll pay."


End file.
